


The General's Guest

by Jennytheshipper



Series: The Life And Death Of Sugar Candy [25]
Category: The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2072244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring, 1940. Murdoch has his opinions about Theo, though he keeps them (mostly) to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The General's Guest

**Author's Note:**

> Series notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/36980)  
> A thousand thanks to idlesuperstar whose very excellent suggestions, notes and editing have been invaluable as usual.

“Decadence!” Mrs. Crocker seethed as the drainpipe overhead gurgled with water running from the bath upstairs. “That’s what it is. That is his third bath this week and it’s only Thursday! Doesn’t he know there’s a war on?” she continued, muttering to the sausages that she was shepherding around in a frying pan. 

Murdoch rolled his eyes at this outburst, as he did with most things Mrs. Crocker said. He had no great love for the General’s houseguest, but he was used to him and that was enough. 

“There’s nae water rationing yet, Mrs. Crocker.”

“Never mind that. When the General gets back, he’ll hear about this, by gum.” That was the limit. Murdoch could take no more.

“And who is going to tell him?” he asked, taking a step toward her with authority, an effect that was undermined when his stomach rumbled as soon as the smell of sausage hit his nose. 

“I will!”

“Ha!” he scoffed. “You’ll lose your bottle, as always, when the time comes.”

“Not this time. ‘General Candy,’ I’ll say, ‘there’s something you should know about Mr. Kretscma…Kretsch Schuller…about your house guest. He’s wasteful with water, inconsiderate of the staff, and probably a spy.’”

“Ha!” Murdoch scoffed again. “You’ll nae say any such thing. He’ll have you out on your ear for suggesting he’s harbouring a spy,” he said squinting for emphasis. _You old trout,_ he added mentally. 

There was a knock at the door and Murdoch sprang for it. No use having Mrs. Crocker see him with the lad from down the street with the coffee and sugar. She would turn him in to the authorities, he was sure, even though she’d eaten enough black market sausages herself to reach half way to Camden. 

“That’ll be for me,” he said over his shoulder in a voice he hoped was authoritative. You had to keep discipline in the ranks. He swung the door almost completely shut behind him and stepped out onto the back porch. 

The lad looked furtively round the little concrete yard. Murdoch gave him a handful of crumpled notes, and the boy in turn gave Murdoch a small cloth sack and a fat paper bundle. They looked small enough to fit into his coat pockets, which was good because he didn’t want Mrs. Crocker to see him putting them in the larder. The less she knew about where things came from, the better. 

“They get smaller every week,” he said weighing the bundles in his hands, “and still the price goes up,” he grumbled.

“I do the best I can, sir,” said the boy, bristling. “Coffee and sugar is a tall order. If it was one or the other, it might be easier, but both is getting scarce.”

“Aye, I’m sure of it.” Murdoch said, softening. The boy relaxed, shuffled his feet on the gravel. 

“Anything else you need? We got a shipment of brandy from France.”

Murdoch smiled indulgently. He knew the “brandy” was from no further away than a bodged still in the East End. It wouldn’t hurt to lay in a supply in case things got worse, though.

“I don’t know. You’ve nae got any butter by any chance?” he asked, thinking of the sad little cake of yellow stuff going greasy round the edges waiting for the General’s return.

The General was used to every sort of privation, bad food, noise, perpetual damp and dirt, but the limit, the absolute limit was so-called margarine. The old boy would holler himself blue when he tasted the foul stuff. Murdoch shuddered at the thought.

The boy laughed. “Ain’t a pound of butter to be ‘ad anywhere, sir. It’s the ‘oarding. The minute rationing was announced, every last bit was snatched up. No, we’ll not see butter for a long time, I’m afraid,” he said looking quite serious. Probably parroting something he heard his old man say to a punter. 

“Tis a pity. If this war would only start properly, people would forget about butter in a hurry.”

“What does the General say?” the lad asked bold as brass. Cheeky devil. 

“Shush, boy. Careless talk and all. Now, ge’ along with ye and bring a flask o’ that brandy round later in the week.”

The boy smiled and waved, tearing up the back stairs two at a time. Murdoch went back into the house, following the scent of cooking meat like a bloodhound, feeling less murderous toward the cook. His stomach rumbled again as he spotted the tray waiting to be taken to the General’s guest. He scanned it quickly, realised the old trout had forgotten the mustard again and headed into the larder. He emptied the coffee and sugar into their tins and hid the packaging in his jacket pocket. 

He studied the butter sitting forlornly under its grand glass dome, a remnant of more plentiful times. He lopped off one of the greasier corners and put it a small dish for the tray. Couldn’t imagine getting that strange, dense bread from the German bakers down without at least a little butter. Spy my eye! The old trout wouldn’t know Mata Hari from his Great Aunt Maisie.

 

Murdoch entered the lounge, but the General’s guest didn’t look up, just read on, leaning toward the window for the last of the light. The General’s guest sat in the smaller of the two wingbacks, the one Murdoch always thought of as the Missus’ chair. The larger chair, the General’s, was empty of course, though the cushion sagged as if still under his weight. The General’s guest sat there pink-faced, the devil. Mrs. Crocker was right about all that hot water, not that Murdoch would ever let her know he agreed with anything she said. Murdoch noticed he wasn’t as buttoned up as usual, not on parade, so to speak, wearing his blue cardigan open. Probably overheated, the fool. What would the General say if his guest were to catch cold on Murdoch’s watch? 

Murdoch cleared his throat and placed the tray on the desk as he’d done every night since the General’s last departure. There’d been a bit of a palaver the first night, the General’s guest refusing to eat in the dining room alone, saying it felt too empty. Murdoch had been put out at the time. He needn’t have polished the big table and laid the good service. The General had been much the same after the Missus died. ’Twas years before he would eat alone in the dining room. 

Murdoch turned on the reading lamp, and pulled the blinds-- mustn’t have any light leaks. He wondered if the lamp had been left unlit as long as possible so as to seem less extravagant. Difficult to say. Just as likely that he’d simply been caught up in the papers, trying to decipher those little scraps of news that trickled in from France. It was only when the light clicked on that the General’s guest looked up at him, and smiled. 

“Good Evening, Murdoch.” It had been years since the General had bid him “good evening.” Made him feel a bit embarrassed, but he was extra polite, just the same. Something about this guest brought out the manners in Murdoch.

“Evening, sir. I’ll just leave your tray here, shall I?”

“Yes, thank you. That will be fine,” he said, glancing back down at his paper. He straightened in the chair, clearly able to read better with the added light. Murdoch was about to leave when he added, “Murdoch?”

“Yes, sir?” Murdoch said, turning back toward the General’s guest.

“Have you any matches?”

“Certainly. You aren’t going to smoke now, though, are you sir?” Murdoch asked, in a tone he remembered the Missus using on the General when he tried to wear a hat with a feather in the band. He would never understand Continental habits.

“No, after my, my supper,” he said with a half smile and a slight shake of the head. Murdoch was relieved to realize he’d had the wrong end of the stick. 

Aye, of course,” Murdoch said, relieved. He fished in his jacket pocket for a box of matches. He found them and rattled the box to make sure there were still a few left. It was quite full. A bit too full for Murdoch’s liking. Murdoch was sorry to give it up now. Pipe smokers could never have too many matches. Why hadn’t he promised to bring some up with the coffee? “Never a match when you need one, eh, sir?”

“Mmm, ja. There never seem to be any matches in this house. Plenty of cigarettes, but no matches,” he said, smiling.

Murdoch nodded, a wee bit annoyed at the criticism, but softened as he studied the man’s expression, which seemed wistful for a moment, as if he were lost in memory. 

“Any news about the war, sir?” he asked, though goodness knows why, since he could feel in his very bones that his supper was getting cold down stairs. 

“The usual, half lies, many words adding up to nothing. This might be something here though,” he said, tapping the paper, “This maneuver in France. Clive—er-General Candy might be--”

“Aye, he might,” Murdoch nodded looking down at the paper.

“Oh it is probably nothing. Chasing shadows,” the General’s guest said with a sigh, folding the newspaper carefully and placing it on the table. It always warmed Murdoch’s heart to see a newspaper properly handled, though it had been years since he’d had to iron one. 

“Well, if that will be all then, sir?” he said, edging toward the door before the reply. 

“Yes, of course, Murdoch. Don’t let me keep you from your supper. Forgive an old man without much appetite. I will prattle on.”

“Ach, no. I brought it up, sir,” Murdoch said, glancing away, embarrassed. He noticed that the ashtray on the desk was full. He reached over and tipped it into a nearby bin in one smooth movement.

“It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Your - pub night.”

“Aye, sir, that it is.” It pleased Murdoch that someone besides himself remembered his pub night. He glanced back at the food growing cold on the desk, thinking of his own supper downstairs. 

“Well, enjoy yourself,” he said, absently, settling back in his chair. What was he on about? Murdoch wasn’t leaving this minute.

“I’ll bring the coffee up, first, before I go, sir,” Murdoch said by way of explanation.

“Ja, I know.” His face gave nothing away. What was he up to?

“In about an hour?”

“Ja.” Still nothing to be read there. And then Murdoch hit on it.

“Maybe a little brandy on the side?” he asked playfully.

“Maybe just a little,” the General’s guest smiled and winked. 

Murdoch shook his head slightly and began to turn away. “If that will be all sir?”

“Ja. Go eat your supper, man!”

“Aye, sir,” Murdoch said with a half smirk. As he headed down the back stairs, the smell of his dinner reached his nose and he could think of almost nothing else. He wouldn’t be capable of speech till the first few glorious bites of sausage were happily in his gullet. 

Five minutes later, as he sat with Mrs. Crocker, gobbling his food, Murdoch’s mind drifted back to the General’s guest. You had to admit he was very polite, never bellowing like the General. It was kind of him to remember his pub night. He was like a good tempered wee child, easy to indulge. A bit of coffee and sugar and brandy-- even if it was nearly the last of the good stuff. The General was fond of a bit of whiskey, anyway, as was Murdoch. Where was the harm? It was easy to overlook the dressing gown and slippers left in the General’s wardrobe. Murdoch had overlooked worse over the years. But the thing that counted, really, was the General being happier than he’d been since the Missus died. Murdoch couldn’t remember the last time he’d shouted down the house. That was surely worth a bit of hot water and a few matches, and keeping Mrs Crocker off the scent. Old trout, he thought as he watched her carefully cutting her sausage into small bites. He must remember to grab another box of matches before heading out to the pub. It wouldn’t do to be begging a light off Baines. He didn’t smoke, poor man. 

“How’s His Nibs, then?” Mrs. Crocker asked. 

Murdoch cast about in his mind, but he had no idea what the old trout was on about. Last he remembered she’d been telling about some niece or other joining the WRENS. 

“Hmm, sorry?”

“You were miles away. I asked, how his Nibs was? Not much appetite, I expect, even after all them baths.”

“I expect you’re right,” Murdoch said, aware that the trays came back not much lighter than when they went up. Of course by the time they arrived back in the kitchen, Murdoch had helped appearances a bit by sneaking a few bites of the leftovers. 

“Mr. Crocker used to say, ‘never trust a man without an appetite. It’s usually a sign of a bad conscience,’” she said, stage-whispering the word ‘conscience” for emphasis.

Murdoch grunted and shook his head. He often forgot that there had been a _Mr._ Crocker. It was hard to believe in such a self-sacrificing noble creature. Must have been cracked in the head. Most of the cooks he’d worked with were only honorary “Missus-es.” But it was hard to get proper staff with an almost-war on. Since the Missus died, Murdoch had had no one to talk to about matters of staff. And the old trout was at least a good cook, he thought, chasing the last bite of sausage through a mustard puddle on his plate. More than could be said of some he’d seen in recent years.

“Well, they can’t all be like the General,” Murdoch said, leaning back in his chair, satisfied after his meal. There was no worse sin for a cook than a small appetite. He suspected it was part of the reason that Mrs. Crocker so highly revered her employer. General Clive Wynne-Candy could always be called upon to eat a plate of food that would choke a horse. So could Murdoch for that matter. You never knew when the next meal would come. Best to eat up while you could.

“Anything for afters?” he asked somewhat contritely, hoping to close the subject of the General’s guest.

Mrs. Crocker brightened at the mention of her food.

“Only some scraps of leftover suet cake that I’ve steamed up into a pudding,” she said and added demurely, “with the last of the treacle sauce.”

As she’d spoken her forehead smoothed and she looked almost calm. Her face wasn’t so red now that she’d been off her feet and out of the heat of the kitchen. Not a bad looking woman he supposed. She’d kept her figure a little, even, considering the hazards of her job. If you had to throw away your freedom on someone like poor old cracked in the head Mr. Crocker had, it was best if she was a tolerable cook. And Mrs. Crocker was a more than tolerable cook. 

“Sounds lovely,” he said as she got up to fetch the pudding. 

Mrs. Crocker looked at him as if he had feet growing out of his ears. The General’s guest had gone too far in bringing the manners out of Murdoch. It was the kindest word he’d ever given her.

“You’re up to something, Mr Murdoch. I can always tell when someone is up to something.”

“I’m nae up to something. I like a bit o’ treacle sauce, is all.”

She eyed him suspiciously and went to get the pudding. Insufferable woman. All gossip and complaints and suspicion. Good cook or no, there was no chance poor ol’ Crocker hadn’t been cracked in the head.

They ate pudding in silence, accompanied only by the sound of Murdoch’s spoon scraping every last drop of treacle sauce from the plate. Mrs. Crocker occasionally looked up at him as if she expected something treacherous at any moment. She went off to make the coffee and returned shortly from the larder holding up the coffee and sugar canisters.

“Next time the lad from the grocery comes, send him in to me. He’s been shorting us, I think. Look here, these were refilled, but not half so well as last time--”

“Don’t order me about, woman. I’ve always kept the General’s pantry, ever since the Missus died,” he said hoping to deflect the fact that the lad wasn’t from the grocery at all.

She shrugged, apparently unwilling to argue. “No skin off my nose. I don’t drink the stuff anyway. Good English tea. That’s what I drink.”

Murdoch had half a mind to retort that tea came from India, but he let it slip. She was off the black market now, retreating to her kitchen to make the coffee. Murdoch fetched the good coffee cup from the china cupboard and the small dish of sugar from the larder and put them on a tray. He brought the tray through to the kitchen rather than take a moment to sit down. He was off to the pub soon, after all, plenty of time to sit then. 

“I saved a bit of pud there for His Nibs. Put in on the tray for me, will you,” Mrs. Crocker said, nodding to a small dish on the counter. There she went ordering him about again as if he didn’t have eyes in his head.

“I notice his appetite is fine when it comes to sweets,” she added, the canny old trout.

So help me God, Murdoch thought, if she comes back with one of Mr. Crocker’s sayings, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. It was the limit to have to stand there and be lectured by a dead man. A cracked in the head dead man at that!

“I expect you’re anxious to get off to your pub night?” she said turning around to eye him suspiciously once more.

“Aye, I am. Don’t wait up, woman. I’ll be back late,” Murdoch said with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“As if I would! And Mr. Murdoch, while we are on the subject,” she said, affecting an air of great dignity, “I wish you’d refrain from addressing me as ‘woman.’ It is most degrading to imagine myself as your woman.”

Murdoch felt his face flush. Oh, she was insufferable, this one. Where did she come by this high-falutin’ vocabulary all of a sudden? Probably listening to her radio dramas, the wretched things. “Very well, Mrs. Crocker,” he said as icily as he could manage. He added the coffee pot and pudding to the tray, and headed up the stairs, glad that he’d soon be on his own, walking to the pub. 

++

It was starting to drizzle as Murdoch stepped out onto the street. No moon. And with the blackout, he’d have to feel his way to The Star. He looked back up at number 15. No lights, though he was sure the General’s Guest would be up for hours reading. No trouble crossing the road--at least the blackout had that advantage, there weren’t many that would venture out in it of a Thursday - not with the pictures closed, and all the theatres too. He passed the end of Embassy Row, wondering if he’d bump into Baines. Would be nice to have some company in all this dark. He heard the welcome noise of the tavern as he turned into the Mews, the front door leaking light briefly onto the cobblestone as he opened it. 

 

The pub was fairly quiet, barely a haze of tobacco and a shower of darts players in the corner, deep into their weekly game of 300. On week-ends the smoke hung like fog. That was an advantage to being in service, fewer crowds to contend with on your evenings off. He spotted Baines at a small table in the corner, his bowler hat hung neatly on the hook alongside. Murdoch took off his cloth cap, shook a few drops of rain off and used it to greet Baines who gave a nod in return, his right eyebrow shooting up in recognition.

“What’ll it be, then, the usual?”

 “Yes, a pint of Burton, you remember. Thanks old man.”

Murdoch nodded and headed over to the bar. It was his habit to get the first round--his contribution to banishing the reputation of his race as misers. Baines wasn’t much of a drinker, anyway, and they rarely went past two rounds apiece. All the better for getting up Friday mornings.

Murdoch dithered a moment with his order. He was tempted to order the mild because it was cheaper, but he fancied something stronger. If he started with the mild he’d be back and forth to the khazi all night, it was little more than water. He ordered two pints of the Burton, grumbling to himself about the price, which had gone up again.  

Before turning round and heading to the table, he took a deep drink from his pint, ah that was the stuff, the old Burton, made a pleasing warmth in his throat on a damp night. Better choice than the mild on a night like this. 

“Get this down your neck,” Murdoch said handing Baines his pint.

 “Lovely. Cheers,” Baines said, offering his pint up to him.

 “Sláinte,” Murdoch said and touched the glass with his. “Think we’re in for a blow,” Murdoch said taking another deep drink with one hand and loosening his muffler with the other.

“The _Telegraph_ said it would likely pass over. Amount to nothing.”

“The _Telegraph_. Fie. Ye should trust a Scotsman to know a storm when he smells it.”

“Fair enough. I won’t argue the weather with a Highlander.”

“Who said anything about the Highlands, man? We know storms enough in the border country as well,” he said, aware he was raising his voice a bit. This seemed to amuse Baines further.

 “Did you see Number 63 had men in to fix the back stairs finally?” Murdoch asked, relaxing back. They knew all the houses by their numbers, rarely discussing the people within them, unless they’d served with them. Murdoch had first encountered Baines when he was a footman working for Old Wince-Dudley, one of the General’s hunting cronies. 

“I did. About time, too. Poor old Amy trotting up and down those broken steps with the rugs. ‘Baines’, she says, ‘I live in fear of a fall.’ Well, she’s nothing to worry about now. Smoothest concrete in Belgravia. Old Reed paid a pretty penny for it, I’m sure.”

“The tradesmen around here are no better than highwaymen,” Murdoch said. Baines nodded in agreement. They sipped their pints. Murdoch studied the clock above the bar. Half eight. Plenty of time, yet. He pulled his pipe out of his jacket. Baines passed an ashtray from nearby table.

 “Bugger it! I forgot the matches, in the end, “Murdoch exclaimed. “I’ll just get some from the bar, I won’t be a tick.” Now he’d have to use his own money for matches. That was a shame, when there were boxes of them in the pantry back at Number 15. He got the attention of the barman. 

 “Ah, would ye have a box of matches, Tom?” Murdoch asked, hoping that if he were a bit friendly, he might rate a free box. 

 “That’ll be thruppence,” Tom said tersely, narrowing his eyes as if he expected a challenge from Murdoch. Murdoch gasped quietly to himself. This was turning out to be a terrible dear pub night. Never in all his days! He could buy stacks of matches for thruppence! He handed the money over glumly and headed back to the table. 

“Bit of a bother, eh, old man?” Baines asked, spinning his beer mat like a top on the table. 

“Aye. Forgot me matches is all,” Murdoch said, retrieving his pipe from the ashtray where he’d abandoned it. “I gave my last box to the General’s guest and meant to grab another box on the way out. It slipped me mind, see, as I was too busy taking pudding and brandy upstairs to His Nibs. That’s what Mrs. Crocker calls him, anyway, the General’s Guest.”

“Ah, yes. They make a lot of extra work, don’t they? Guests?”

“Aye, it’s not easy feeding them with this rationing.” Murdoch eyed Baines’ drink. The man wasn’t a third of the way done. Better slow down and pace himself or he’d be sitting with an empty glass for fifteen minutes. 

“I know it only too well. The Missus with her cravings. Has us running upstairs at all hours.”

“When’s your wee guest due?”

“Any day now. She’s confined to her apartment, mostly. Doesn’t like the stairs.”

“How is Mrs. Baines coping?”

“Oh, she’s in heaven. She’s mad on kiddos. All women are, I suppose.”

“Careful, she’ll be wanting one herself.”

“I’m afraid hints have already been dropped. I’ve done my best to ignore them, so far.”

Murdoch shook his head, tutting in sympathy.  

“You could enlist. That would put an end to it,” Murdoch added, helpfully.

“It might just put an end to me and all,” Baines laughed, nervously. Murdoch decided not to press the matter further. He smoked his pipe and studied Baines idly. He was balancing the beer mat on the edge of the ashtray. Hard to imagine him in a trench-- this fidgety, nervous devil. He’d never stand the waiting around. Not that it was trenches now. But imagine him in a plane! At last Baines finished his drink, spurred on by the lull in the conversation. Murdoch drained his glass and left it on the edge of the table for the pot man, a crusty old bird who seemed to live in the pub. Baines got up to fetch another round.

“Say, this will amuse you,” Baines said returning with the pints, “we had a cable from old Wince-Dudley congratulating the Missus on the upcoming blessed event.”

“How is the old sinner?” Murdoch asked, glad for the chance to reminisce a bit about happier times. 

“Still going strong, apparently. Still dragging the staff up to Scotland every autumn for his shooting.”

“Remember the time the General forgot his tweed waistcoat?”

“And had to borrow the young gentleman’s, what was his name?”

“Ach, I cannae remember the name, but he was a damn sight narrower through the chest than the General. The buttons had to be moved in a panic.” 

“Yes, and moved back again, with no one being the wiser!”

“And the General spilled mustard on it one luncheon.”

“A devil of a time, we had cleaning it afterward. My, yes. But those were grand times, weren’t they, after the last war?” Baines said with a far-away look. Murdoch remembered Baines then. A handsome lad, seemed to be one for the ladies. Though not much more than a boy, he had a lot of patter about the places he wanted to go—India and Africa. He’d been keen to learn where Murdoch had been posted, what he called his adventures in the last war. Mrs. Baines was only Emily, the under-house parlour maid, a bit too big for her boots, always with her eye to advancement. Murdoch wondered how she’d trapped Baines, poor devil. There but for the grace of God go I, he thought, taking a small sip of his second pint. The second was never as good, somehow; what was sweet and malty had turned syrupy in his mouth. The deep thirst had gone. They’d never run to three at this rate. 

“Speaking of wars,” Baines asked in low voice, “what do you hear from the General?”

“Nothing more than you read in your _Telegraph_ ,” Murdoch said trying to sound casual. “Have you heard anything from the draft board?”

“No. It’s early days yet, I suppose. Mrs. Baines wants me to apply to a factory, said heads of industry won’t get called up.”

“That’s a thought,” Murdoch said skeptically. If he couldn’t imagine Baines in a trench, it was even more a stretch to picture him in a factory.

“A damned silly one at that. She thinks a fellow can just walk up to the factory door and get made a manager. ‘If you can manage a house full of unruly servants, you can manage a few machinists,’ she says, as if that’s all there’s to it. As if they don’t give those jobs to the boys from their school and the sons of the chaps they go to club with. I tried to explain it’s all a racket, but she won’t listen.”

“That’s women folk for you,” Murdoch said, wisely. Maybe the war would be the best thing for Baines, get him out from under the thumb of that wife of his. 

“What about you, any news?” Baines asked, twisting his wedding ring back and forth. The pot man had taken his beer mat. It was really too bad he didn’t smoke. A pipe would give him something dignified to fidget with. But then, Murdoch pitied everyone that didn’t smoke a pipe. 

“Sadly, no, I’m too old to be on the list. But it’s kind of you to think of it.” He should be glad to be well out of it this time, God knows he’d hated every second of the last one, but thought of being left behind depressed him.

“Doesn’t seem possible, you being too old. You’re just a young pup.”

“Not according to me birth certificate.”

“Well, no matter. There’s lots of ways of getting involved. I was toying with doing the coast watch. You know those chaps in the row boats on the river. Keeping my place at the embassy, of course.” Murdoch was skeptical, but he nodded politely. Rowing a leaky boat all night and then coming home to work all day. What a notion!

“We can always use more hands in the ARP,” Murdoch suggested.

“Mm, yes,” Baines, said, nodding. Probably not glamorous enough for him, Murdoch thought. Coast watch, indeed!

They sipped on in silence, sitting side by side in their quiet corner. Murdoch eyed the darts players. The winners were collecting their victory pints. Baines fingered a handbill he’d picked up at the bar. Murdoch had seen a stack of them but hadn’t bothered to read one. He didn’t notice most of the adverts about these days, cautioning you to do this, urging you to do that. The picture on the handbill showed an automobile and all the various ways it needed to be modified to fit with the blackout regulations. Thank God, he could leave that can ‘o worms to Miss Cannon. 

“Such a production, nowadays, just to drive about,” Murdoch said.

“Hmm? Yes,“ Baines said, looking back up at Murdoch. “A lot of rules and regulations to keep things running smoothly.”

“Or to keep the bureaucrats happy,” Murdoch said. He didn’t know who these people were that made the signs. They weren’t going to fight the war, though, Murdoch knew that.

Baines chuckled. “You’re probably right. “

Murdoch eyed the clock and yawned. It was only 9:15. Baines followed with a big yawn of his own.

“What a pair we are. Done in and it’s not even ten.”

“Aye. Time was I didn’t consider it a night at the pub till I’d had five or six pints.”

“Five or six! Never try to outdrink a Scotsman,” Baines said with a wink.

“No. We’re a thirsty lot.”

“Another round then?” Baines asked, finishing the last of his ale, swirling the dregs round the bottom of the glass.

“Ach, no. I think, I’ll make an early night of it.” Murdoch said before he had time to talk himself into another drink.

Baines looked relieved. He looked shattered. Probably his Missus and her cravings, poor devil. Murdoch was glad the General and the Missus had never had a bairn. They’d been happy enough on their own.

They gathered up their coats, Baines in his pale Mackintosh and Murdoch with his old tweed. They walked out into the street together. The rain had stopped. There were a few stars winking out from behind the clouds.

“Your _Telegraph_ was right,” Murdoch said grudgingly. “Looks like it’s clearing up.”

“Mmm? Yes,” Baines said. He was a decent sort. Didn’t lord it over you when he was right. They walked on in silence till it was time for Baines to turn toward Embassy Row. A quiet, “Night then,” was all they exchanged. Murdoch looked down the street after him. Cardigan Place was entirely dark, including Number 15. The General’s guest was probably still up. Or perhaps he’d fallen asleep reading in the chair, poor old devil. At any rate, he’d go up and put out the lamp before bed. 

He let himself into the yard with his key and quietly padded down the stairs to the back door. He looked in. Everything was black. Mrs. Crocker had gone to bed. He undid the latch and went in. Better pull that shade first before turning on the light. He stood for a moment listening to the buzz of the lamps. No, she was definitely in bed. He’d hear her snoring as he passed her room. He squinted in the harsh white light that bounced off the gleaming parquet tiles. She did keep a clean kitchen. Still, that husband of hers had been cracked in the head. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry not sorry that this turned into a bit of an excuse to fangirl Ralph Richardson's Baines character from Fallen Idol. You should count yourselves lucky that when I found out that young John F. Kennedy was actually in the U.S. Embassy in Belgravia at this same time that I resisted the urge to include him as well.


End file.
